


The Care and Feeding of Demonic Reptiles

by Sodium_Azide



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Cooking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), could be read as, is sentient, now with art!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: There are many ways to love someone. Sometimes that means doing four days of research so that you can have a mutually-enjoyable meal together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 231





	The Care and Feeding of Demonic Reptiles

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has likely been written before, but hey! Two cakes! And Aziraphale, in my mind, has been hoping to spoil his Serpent since the world was young. At least some of the ideas in here came from the SOSH discord. (you know who you are, you enablers)
> 
> This fic was recently included in Quefish' latest 'Drunk Reading' available [here](https://youtu.be/q5-oQrR0CBw?t=2918).

  
[ ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIB-TYXFj8r/)

Art by [Ishtar](https://www.instagram.com/ish7ar/)

“ _And the LORD God said unto the serpent,  
Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle,  
and above every beast of the field;  
upon thy belly shalt thou go,  
and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life._”  
-Genesis 3:14, King James Bible.

* * *

Aziraphale waved the hand not currently holding his wineglass aimlessly about. “So frankly, if a dinner guest dribbles vinegar over their steak, or salts a meal before they have even tasted it, then I entirely support a host’s right to throw them out of the house never to return.”

Crowley hummed noncommittally. “Just let the cook at ‘em. Kitchen knives versus whatever tableware the poor sod can snatch up. That’ll solve the problem right quick, and be a good, whatcha’call it, enriching exercise for the chef.”

“I think enrichment activities are for zoo animals. Putting pumpkins in the cages to roll about and such.”

“Why would pumpkins be enriching? I’ve never felt particularly enriched by a pumpkin.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but the animals seem to like it.”

“Bored out of their skullssss, I guess anything would do.” the demon hissed morosely.

“I imagine that a well-trained chef would be more enriched by the gift of a pumpkin than permission to stab an undeserving guest, however.” 

“A chef, sure, but a short-order diner cook would prefer the stabbing, I’ll wager.”

“Have you ever been stabbed by a short-order cook, my dear?” Aziraphale eyed him.

Crowley mumbled indistinctly and ostentatiously refilled his wineglass. “Nothing wrong with ordering something off-menu, in my opinion, if you’re willing to pay. Not that I would pay. Right villain, me.” 

Aziraphale ignored the majority of Crowley’s verbal padding, focusing on the essentials. “What on Earth did you order that was the immediate prelude to assault with a deadly weapon?” He paused. “Deadly for humans, I mean. But the point stands.”

Crowley drained half his glass before letting his head fall backwards to rest on the cushioned edge of the Chesterfield sofa. “Look. Angel. If a burger flipper in Des Moines was willing to threaten me with death, I’m not going to offend your sensibilities by telling you. Loads more fun ways to annoy you than that.”

“Well, all this talk about food has made me peckish. Would you object to a bit of charcuterie?” Aziraphale huffed. “I would hope that some cheese and pickles and _jamon iberico_ would be up to your mysterious off-menu standards?”

Crowley continued sipping his wine and looped his leg over an arm of the chair, successfully encompassing triple the area necessary for his limbs. “Your standards are astronomical angel. That was m’point. Just more wine for me.” 

Aziraphale huffed again, with the fastidiousness and skill of someone who enjoyed huffing and had been doing so semi-professionally for centuries. “If cave-aged blue cheese doesn’t tempt you-”

Crowley’s head snapped up with the speed of a viper. “The really old stuff? Like, the kind where they have to seal the little rounds in wax so that they don’t stink up the whole store?”

The angel, obviously startled somewhat out of his buzz, nodded mutely. 

“If you have a few pieces of that kicking around, I’m your demon. Let’s do this.” Crowley cheered. He leaped to his feet, still somewhat ungainly with the wine he had imbibed, and ambled his way past Aziraphale like a stickbug attempting to waltz.

The flat above the bookshop had been seeing far more use after the ApocaNot, with a shy Aziraphale carrying a sleeping Crowley up to tuck him into the most ludicrously fluffy bed possible for a being that had never even napped since the world was made. After that initial morning of a startled demonic snake believing that he had been kidnapped or possibly traveled back in time to the 1950s, due to the outdated decor, they divided their evenings between Crowley’s vault of a flat, the backroom of the bookshop, or the little rooms above.

Now, the little kitchenette seemed smaller than ever as Crowley poked around in the refrigerator and tiny pantry, dismissing most of what he found, but occasionally pulling out the strangest choices with apparent ardor. Pickled onions, ginger paste, a durian fruit Aziraphale was quite sure he had not purchased, and, of course, the tiny round of years-aged French blue cheese. The angel busied himself cutting up the cured meats and other cheeses, along with some olives. Realizing he didn’t own a platter, the angel waved a hand to produce one, with all of the ingredients artistically arranged on it in aesthetic perfection. Crowley immediately ruined it by plucking a garlic-stuffed olive and swallowing it whole. “Not bad.”

Aziraphale flapped his hands at him to shoo away any further demonic interference. “I have known you to go months without eating anything solid. I’m sure you can wait the ten seconds necessary for us to sit down at the table and eat like people.”

“We’re not people.”

“We most certainly are, my dear. Bona fide citizens of Earth, we are.”

Crowley smiled slowly, with the broad grin that only occasionally showed itself when he was relaxed. “So we are. I stand corrected, angel.”

Aziraphale beamed at him as they settled at the tiny round table barely able to hold their charcuterie platter. Crowley narrowed his eyes at it until the table broadened obediently by several square centimeters. 

Smearing a bit of pâté on a crostini, Aziraphale nodded at the platter. “Have at, dear boy. Feel free to have as much of that blue cheese as you wish-it’s a bit strong for my usual taste, but it seemed worth the trouble.” 

The angel munched politely, trying very hard not to stare, as Crowley demolished the pickled onions, alarmingly hot red-pepper spread, and seemingly every condiment in existence all balanced in multi-layered heaps. He had never seen his demon so pleased with any comestible aside from alcohol. When the pungency of the blue cheese combined with the durian, Aziraphale informed his lungs that he would not be breathing for the rest of the evening and to enjoy their time off. 

Finishing his last bite, Aziraphale dabbed his mouth delicately with a napkin. “Did you know dear, that durian fruit is actually banned on public transport in some countries? Was that you?”

Crowley cackled and nodded, dipping a pickled onion in horseradish sauce and popping it into his mouth with every evidence of enjoyment. “You’ve never seen so many people trying to smuggle their groceries home on a bus, like they’re trying to rob a museum.” he slurred.

Aziraphale giggled at the thought, and Crowley’s mischievous expression smoothed into satisfaction. The demon leaned back from the table and stretched indulgently, his usually plank-flat abdomen very slightly rounded. Aziraphale preened at the compliment to his pantry. “So the provisions were acceptable, dear?”

“Yeah, angel. Lots of things with lots of taste.” 

“Some of the flavors are certainly rather strong. I can make sure that I cater to your preferences, my dear. Any particular favorites that I ought to include?”

The demon tensed slightly. Feeling brave, Aziraphale stretched out a hand to lay on a bony black-clad knee. “Would it help if I assured you that no stabbings will occur?” he wheedled. Crowley barked out a laugh and loosened, but kept his leg still under the angel’s palm. 

“Just...anything I can taste, angel. Alcohol is always fun, and I can smell it great, especially the really aged stuff or volatile stuff. For food, just, yeah, whatever has a taste.”

“All foods have a taste, dear boy.”

Crowley hissed between his teeth and looked away. “Not to me, angel. Thanks to your boss.”

The angel blinked in confusion for a moment, before a horrible suspicion wafted into his thoughts. “The curse of the serpent?”

Crowley flicked a forked tongue at him. “Right in one, angel. Dust. All the days of my life.”

Patting his companion’s leg sympathetically, Aziraphale thought for a long moment. “But not everything, apparently? Some things come through, you said?”

Crowley nodded at him, his stiff features not enough to mask his vulnerability from Aziraphale. The angel smiled as encouragingly as he knew how, and waved his hand to summon their prior wineglasses and a good bottle of dry white wine as a palate cleanser. “Well then.” He poured for his companion, then himself. “What do you like best, my dear?”

What Crowley liked best, it seemed, was a global assortment of everything from kimchi to rare Icelandic fermented fish delicacies. Old cheeses, vinegars strong enough to strip paint. Raw lemons, eyewateringly spicy chili peppers, alcohols of such high proof they needed to be kept chilled lest they simply evaporate into nothingness. Crowley had orchestrated the artisan hot sauce trend and the cinnamon challenge, but was bewildered and disappointed by molecular gastronomy. Aziraphale nodded along, chiming in with suggestions and questions and only barely resisting the urge to take notes. 

It was nearly dawn before Crowley’s yawns became too frequent to ignore. Waving off the angel’s offer of the bed, the demon sobered himself up, muttering about his plants, and was gone after a shy little hug of farewell. 

Aziraphale understood his demon’s need to regroup and center himself in familiar surroundings, and it suited his needs perfectly. He cleaned up their plates and empty glasses the human way. After he put the kettle on, he wandered to the railing to survey the bookshop below. “Crowley wants to enjoy food, but only specific and extreme flavors will suit. I think that some information on, say, biochemistry, gastronomy, food science, and herpetology might be useful.” he announced to the empty air. 

The angel brewed his early morning tea, and descended the staircase. His writing desk held a neat stack of books, ranging from brick-thick chemistry textbooks, to pamphlets on how snakes swallowed their prey. Next to his armchair was a towering pile of cookbooks. Aziraphale smiled and sat down. “Thank you.” A wooden groan from the upper floor echoed as he readied his paper for notes. By the time he was reviewing the pH scale of acids and alkalis, a collection of scrolls about the Biblical Serpent was arranged beside him. Hours later, when he went to brew his lunchtime cocoa, the previously familiar kitchenette gleamed with culinary equipment, an open floorplan, two refrigerators for some reason, and a hundred feet of counterspace. He added several marshmallows to his cocoa and glanced warmly at his old kettle, now sitting primly on the counter beside a restaurant-quality range. “He still likes to sleep, of course.” he murmured. Behind him, the old building creaked in something like embarrassment as the bedroom came back into being. The angel sipped his drink and smiled. His bookshop loved the Serpent as much as he did.

Aziraphale was busy enough that the days flew by, and soon enough a rejuvenated Crowley was clattering into his world again through the locked bookshop door, waving a dreadfully expensive bottle of wine. “Just be grateful that you don’t watch telly, angel, because I just wiped the last five minutes from the recordings of two season finales, and you won’t believe how I managed it…” 

The demon trailed off as he stepped onto the upper floor. Holding a neutral facial expression through superhuman effort, Aziraphale gently rescued the bottle from his limp hand and led him to sit at the wide kitchen island. He poured for them as Crowley gazed about, golden eyes gleaming beautifully. “Angel?”

Aziraphale grinned at him. “Are you hungry, my dear?” 

Crowley gave a helpless shrug along with a meaningless string of consonants. Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Nevertheless, he would not be deterred.

The meal was easy enough to assemble, simple as it was, and in only a few minutes, Aziraphale took the first bite, wiggling in pleased satisfaction. Crowley hesitantly spooned a bit of the colorful mixture from the bowl between them onto his crisp. At the first crunch, his eyes widened, and Aziraphale clapped his hands in genteel victory. “Can you taste it, dearest?” 

Crowley nodded. “What…”

The angel couldn’t have stopped smiling if God Herself had ordered it. “Ceviche. Peruvian dish. Good quality fish, cooked with citric acid instead of heat. Lime juice, chile pepper, coriander and a few other ingredients. Bread doesn’t do much for you, so the crisps-” he gestured at the little platter of thin golden-brown latticed wafers. “-are of aged Italian parmesan cheese, cooked until crisp at 400 degrees in a skillet made of cursed iron.” 

Crowley was staring at him wordlessly. The angel spooned some ceviche onto a new crisp and handed it over helpfully. “I adjusted the recipe to be a bit sharper than usual, and the unholy iron should make this not quite Earthly food, which I hoped might enhance the experience a bit more for you.” Aziraphale built a bite of his own and wiggled in his chair. “It’s tingly for me.” Patting his lips with a napkin, he took a sip of the wine that his guest had brought. “And thank you, dearest, for this lovely bottle. How fortuitous that you brought a Souvignon Blanc. You spoil me.”

“No.” Crowley croaked. He wavered to his feet, then fell to his knees in front of the startled angel, his head in his lap and long arms winding around his waist. “It’s not enough. Never enough for you. Anything for you.” Aziraphale awkwardly returned the hug for a moment, then, feeling quite daring, started petting the bright red hair of his favorite being. “Surely you know I feel the same, my dearest. I want you to enjoy life and be happy.”

Crowley gave a damp chuckle. “You cursed a skillet to make me crisps.” 

“But did it work, my dear? Did you like it?”

The demon angled his head into the petting like a pampered cat. “Yeah, angel. I like it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special internet points if you find the book!Omens reference!


End file.
